


Under the Weather

by crorvid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crorvid/pseuds/crorvid
Summary: “Come down with the flu?” Crowley asked incredulously, holding the receiver as though he might be able to catch it through the phone, despite the fact that demons didn’t get sick. And for that matter,“Angels don’t get the flu.” And yet, here they were. Crowley standing in his flat, ready for dinner, listening to Aziraphale’s tinny, stuffed-up voice through the receiver as he explained that apparently sometimes angels did, in fact, get the flu, because he certainly had.





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is absolutely a pun in reference to their first meeting in Eden.

There was very little that Aziraphale could do that would really surprise Crowley, anymore. Knowing someone for six thousand years makes it rather difficult. But, of course, it wasn’t impossible. It had been surprising when he covered Crowley with his wing in the garden. When he gave Crowley that thermos of holy water. When he kissed Crowley after their dinner at the Ritz, outside his bookshop, and then proceeded to do quite a number of other unexpected things to him with a rather unprecedented level of skill.

So, it wasn’t impossible.

After all, Aziraphale was unpredictable in a way that Crowley never was. Underneath his quite literally buttoned-up exterior was a being far more reckless and manic than Crowley, not that either of them would ever admit it. 

Despite all this, Crowley hadn’t expected the angel to cancel their plans because he’d… 

“Come down with the flu?” Crowley asked incredulously, holding the receiver as though he might be able to catch it through the phone, despite the fact that demons didn’t get sick. And for that matter, 

“Angels don’t get the flu.” And yet, here they were. Crowley standing in his flat, ready for dinner, listening to Aziraphale’s tinny, stuffed-up voice through the receiver as he explained that apparently sometimes angels did, in fact, get the flu, because he certainly had.

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly, not because he needed to, but because he felt that if he didn’t let the exasperation out somehow he might explode.

“Right. This is ridiculous. I’m coming over.”

He expected Aziraphale to insist that he leave him alone to suffer in solitude. Or, perhaps, to at least put up some weak argument before Crowley inevitably kicked his bookshop door open in far less time than it would take someone to responsibly drive to Soho. 

“Splendid. Could you bring me some soup? That’s supposed to help these things, you know. I believe chicken noodle is the standard.”

Of course the angel wanted soup. The ridiculous, needy, high-maintenance… 

“Yeah, alright.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He could hear Aziraphale’s pleased grin through the phone. He mumbled something incoherent and hung up, shaking his head as he walked out the door no longer to meet his angel for a nice evening out but to bring him… soup. Because he was, apparently, sick.

Well, color Crowley surprised.

He arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop irresponsibly soon after, holding a takeout container full of hot soup from the cafe they frequented down the block. He had considered just buying—or even miracling—a can, but the thought of how Aziraphale would respond to being proffered canned soup, even if it was name-brand, was enough to convince him to put in the extra effort.

“Angel?” Crowley called as he entered the shop, ignoring the closed sign as usual. 

“Crowley!” He could hear Aziraphale’s voice coming thinly from his bedroom above the shop, which Crowley knew the angel had never actually used before—well, not when Crowley wasn’t there, anyway. He sauntered up the stairs and into the room and was quite understandably unnerved with the sight he found waiting for him.

Aziraphale really did have the flu. If the thickness of his voice over the phone hadn’t been proof enough, the mountain of tissues surrounding him was compelling evidence. Couple that with the flush across the angel's cheeks and the cocoon of blankets in which he had swaddled himself, and there was no argument to be had.

The question remained, of course, _how_ he had the flu, seeing as Crowley was still relatively certain that occult—or, rather, _celestial_ —beings didn’t get sick at all. Crowley wanted to ask, he really did, but… oh, Aziraphale looked _miserable_ , and he supposed they could wait to get this whole thing figured out until he had some soup in him.

Crowley gingerly placed the takeout container down on his nightstand, setting his sunglasses beside it, and set to work cleaning up the mess that Aziraphale had made. _Honestly_ , he thought as he swept pile after pile of crumpled tissues into a trash can that he had to miracle empty by the time he was finished, refilling the box tucked under Aziraphale’s arm while he was at it. _This all feels a bit unnecessary._ Aziraphale watched him quietly through half-lidded eyes as he worked, a small smile playing at his lips that, were it any bigger, might have wandered into the territory of smug, but as it was fell firmly into the category of self-satisfied.

Having made the dimly lit bedroom marginally less cluttered, Crowley turned his attention to the angel still wrapped tightly in what looked to be roughly a thousand fluffy white blankets. The blue of Aziraphale’s eyes was bright against the flush of his face as he stared up at Crowley expectantly, who could only sigh at the extent to which he indulged his angel as he placed a knee on the bed and leaned over to help him into a sitting position.

As he did so, he realized that he had vastly overestimated the number of blankets around Aziraphale, as what he had assumed was a small mountain of assorted throws were actually the angel’s wings, wrapped tightly around him and covered by only a tasteful amount of bedclothes.

He almost flinched when he touched Aziraphale. He was burning up, his skin much hotter than Crowley had anticipated. Sure, he knew what the flu was supposed to do to the body, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of bedside experience, nor did he ever expect to.

“You’re warm,” he said, helpfully. Aziraphale hummed his agreement, wiggling as he settled into a comfortable position and Crowley sat gingerly beside him on the bed. 

“Soup?” Aziraphale’s voice was already worse than it had been over the phone, much hollower and more painful-sounding.

“Yeah, yeah, soup, right,” Crowley muttered, making sure Aziraphale was settled before turning to grab the container, opening it and miracling a spoon. He briefly considered if the angel was even capable of feeding himself at this point, but the choice was made for him when Aziraphale untangled his arms from his blanket and reached weakly for the soup, taking the hot container with both hands and holding it close to his chest. 

It was, not that Crowley would _ever_ admit it, adorable.

Aziraphale managed a few sips of broth before turning to look at Crowley, who was sitting there, watching him, unsure of what, exactly, to do now. Adjusting his grip on the soup so that it was supported firmly in one hand, Aziraphale reached the other one out to Crowley, pulling him so that he was curled around him with his head in the crook of the angel’s shoulder.

“Mmm. Warm.” Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle at that, as Aziraphale felt like a furnace against his cheek, and then he shivered a little bit as Aziraphale shifted his wing to wrap around both of them. 

The amount of heat radiating off of the feverish angel would probably have made a human feel like they were cooking alive, but Crowley found that he rather liked it. His serpentine nature meant that he enjoyed his fair share of basking, whether it be in sunlight or Aziraphale’s body heat. And there was something lovely about being tucked snugly under his wing as he slowly ate his soup and sniffled and hummed appreciatively when Crowley pressed occasional little kisses into his neck and chest. 

Crowley loved taking care of his angel. As much as he pretended that it was inconvenient, or that he minded, they both knew he would always jump at the chance to do anything for him, whether that be walking on consecrated ground or summoning Satan himself. Or bringing him soup and a warm body to cuddle with, which was preferable to the other options as far as Crowley was concerned. 

Roughly an hour and a box of tissues later, when Aziraphale had finished the last of his broth, Crowley reached up and took the container, disentangling himself slightly—and earning a disapproving huff in the process—to return it to the bedside table before settling back down at the angel’s side, this time earning him a contented sigh and a newly freed hand carding through his hair. 

As much as Crowley wanted to stay here for the rest of eternity, he also really wanted to know how the _hell_ Aziraphale had managed to do the impossible and gotten himself sick, and so he asked. 

Aziraphale responded with a sound that could, very charitably, be transcribed as “I don't know.” It wasn’t convincing. If anything, it made Crowley quite suspicious that Aziraphale knew exactly how it had happened and didn't particularly want to share. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley looked up at him. He was resolutely staring up at the ceiling. “ _Aziraphale_.”

“I was curious,” he mumbled. 

“You what?”

“I was _curious_!”

Crowley blinked up at where the angel was flushed now not only with fever but with embarrassment. “So… you were curious what it felt like to… have the flu?” 

“I… yes, I suppose I was.”

“Well, why didn't you just… miracle it away?”

Aziraphale’s blush somehow got deeper. He buried his face in Crowley’s hair and mumbled something absolutely incomprehensible. 

“...sorry?”

The angel sighed. Staring at the ceiling again as though it was displaying the text of a particularly rare book, he answered. “Wanted you to come take care of me.”

If Crowley’s face wasn't pressed against Aziraphale’s chest, it would in that moment be hitting either his palm or the nearest table. He should have known that this was one of his angel’s ridiculous schemes for attention. The neediest being in Heaven or Hell, not that Crowley would have it any other way. In the absence of a hard surface to bang his forehead against, he settled for laughing. And laughing, and laughing. 

Just as Aziraphale opened his mouth, probably to protest or even to backtrack, Crowley silenced him with a hand on his cheek and a kiss on the underside of his jaw.

“And you knew I would, didn't you?” he teased. “Oh, angel. You never were one for subtlety.” 

Aziraphale looked as though he would quite like to argue but also knew he would lose, and so he settled for a sullen expression that did little to hide his enormous affection for the demon curled up against him. 

Crowley stared up at him, making absolutely no attempt to hide how much he reciprocated that affection, before fully disentangling himself and standing up, grabbing the empty soup container. 

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale rasped, looking adorably alarmed. 

“Relax, angel. I’m making you tea.” Aziraphale brightened. Before he could say anything, Crowley waved a hand. “I know how you like it.”

The look Aziraphale gave him as he left could cause a power surge that would black out the entirety of northern London. 

Crowley did, in fact, know exactly how Aziraphale liked his tea, and he made good use of that knowledge over the next few hours as he alternated between curling up with his angel and leaving to bring him yet another cup. He could have just miracled the cup full again, of course, but there was something charming about doing it the human way. He supposed it had something to do with how human the whole affair was to begin with, although it could just as well be how much he enjoyed the little whine Aziraphale made every time he got up and the beautiful smile and delighted sigh he gave every time Crowley crawled back into bed with him. 

Aziraphale’s fever broke that night and he fell asleep with Crowley wrapped around him. It wasn’t often that Aziraphale slept, and it was even rarer that he fell asleep before Crowley. It also meant that he missed the mischievous grin on Crowley’s face as he followed suit. 

The next morning, Aziraphale awoke before Crowley, feeling perfectly fine. He assumed that angelic healing had something to do with the speed of his recovery, but preferred to believe that it was a result of Crowley’s excellent care. 

He turned to tell him so, placing a hand on his abdomen and realizing that he was quite warmer than usual. He moved his hand to Crowley’s forehead, which was damp with sweat and absolutely blazing. 

“Crowley, my dear,” he said. One amber eye opened lazily, looking up at him as Crowley’s already reddening nose twitched and his mouth curled into a smile that didn't so much wander into the territory of smug as hold a position in local government there. 

“Guess it must be contagious, angel.”

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile back at him before leaning down to kiss him softly. His lips were slightly chapped. Aziraphale moved his mouth up to whisper in Crowley’s ear, feeling the feverish heat radiating off of his skin. 

“You were so good to me yesterday. Now it’s your turn to let me take care of you.”

Crowley shivered, and let him do just that. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly indulgent and ridiculously domestic, but so is Crowley, and Aziraphale loves it.  
> Wrote this for a friend who then encouraged me to post it. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
